A day like any other. A sentence being the building block of narrative. where we compound he problem, if only in writing. There are places where the mind can starve,…

Your language hides your ruthlessness in representation. The bodies keep washing up on the shore, and no one is left to toss them back to the sea. No lighthouse, no…

There is nothing here.

There’s a safety in the pattern. How it unfurls itself in front of you. It’s the map of your life here and there you’ve marked it in your secret language…

Our secret war: how we tumbled out onto the beach expecting rain only to find the sky everywhere with birds. I am dreaming our secret history. Worn down to a…

Lost in a century run-out and threadbare I am curled up on your shoreline. waiting waiting for some thing to rise out of the sea for something to happen for…

All the maps of Asia All the rivers, pulled up by their root and drained back into some sky above you There is no use for this, to be placed…

Back from the land of the ten thousand things for my birthday I came up on the shore like driftwood I’d been asleep under this speck on your map dreaming…

The eventuality of our departure . here in our afterlife. I am a foreign city, listing somewhere in the middle of the map. the geography of the body. It’s temperate…